I Doubt Sometimes Whether A Quiet And

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.